


A New Age

by IncompleteSentanc (Erava)



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen, Powerful Women, Rare Pair, Unlikeable Characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-12-09 04:16:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11661438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erava/pseuds/IncompleteSentanc
Summary: "Rufia Estelle Shinra’s first mistake in the world was an enormous one. One that she’d had no knowledge of for years after, but the effects of which changed everything.Rufia Shinra was born a girl, and she would never quite be forgiven for that."In which Rufus is a woman, and this changes more things than it has any right to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Now this is a whole new territory for me and my fanbase (hi guys!). I'm dipping my toes in the water and getting a feel for it, but hopefully you all enjoy this story as much as I'm enjoying writing it.

* * *

 

 

 

Rufia Estelle Shinra’s first mistake in the world was an enormous one. One that she’d had no knowledge of for years after, but the effects of which changed everything.

Rufia Shinra was born a girl, and she would never quite be forgiven for that.

“You’re useless to me,” She hears her father say over and over again as times goes by. To not just her, but her mother, too. “A girl. A girl! Why couldn’t you have given me a boy, Evelyn? At this rate I’ll have to make _Lazard_ my successor!” He snarls over dinner.

She’s three, but she already knows that she’s worthless in her father’s eyes. “It’s not her fault.” Rufia wants to say, but she’s learned to keep quiet. Her opinions are worthless - to her father, at least.

“It’s just words,” Her mother tells her when she goes to sleep at night. “It’s just words. You’re his only heir, my darling girl. Don’t ever doubt that.” She murmurs before kissing Rufia gently on the forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Rufia tells the woman automatically, watching her get up and leave. She hits the switch on her way out, leaving Rufia in darkness, and there she thinks about her father. About the way his red face gets redder when he talks to her mother, or when she dares to talk to him. About how mean he is when she bores him.

And then she wonders.

Maybe she’s only as worthless as she lets him make her.

 

* * *

 

She’s four when she learns that not all men are like her father. It’s a late lesson to learn - usually, the only men she knows are those that work with her father, and they always treat her the same way.

Either they pretend she isn’t even there or look at her in disdain.

It’s Dr. Palmer, a scientist under her father’s thumb, who changes her world view just a little. She’s at Shinra Headquarters in Junon when he props her up in his chair and shows her his work.

It’s a blueprint for a rocket - a real life _rocket,_ and even Rufia is allowed to be excited about that - and he points out and explains every piece of it for her. It’s amazing and awe inspiring, and Rufia absorbs the information like a sponge would water.

“This is where the engine goes.” Mr. Palmer explains, pointing at almost incomprehensible blueprints of a spaceship. A real _spaceship_ , which is pretty _awesome._

“How does it work?” Estelle asks curiously, stretching onto her toes so she can look at it closer.

Mr. Palmer helpfully pulls his chair in so she can sit up high on it, which gives her a much better view. “It’s complicated, of course, but essentially, we use fuel - a lot of it, and not Mako. It’s something of a conglomeration - sorry, ah, quite a lot of different chemicals, all mixed together into one _very_ explosive launch fuel.” Mr. Palmer explains.

“But wouldn’t that explode the ship?” She questions, frowning up at him, and he shakes his head, a small grin pulling at his lips.

“No, no, it’s insulated at the bottom - the flames can’t reach the body of the ship, just the little cones here at the bottom, see?” He points to a thick line that sits between the cones and the big tube, and Estelle tries to read the label attached to it.

She fails, but that’s alright. “So… it explodes at the bottom?”

“Mhm. Out of these cones, which send it flying upwards.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“It can be.” Mr. Palmer shrugs lightly. “But it shouldn’t be. Right now, we trying to figure out how to get all these plates together so tight they won’t rattle off. The explosion will shake the ship pretty bad.” He explains, frowning down at the blueprints. “But it’ll be alright, I’m sure. We’re putting a lot of research and testing into it.”

Estelle nods at that, but she’s distracted, attention already drawn to a label near the top of it. “Why is there an escape… hatch?” She peers at the second word doubtfully. “If it’s so safe?” She finishes belatedly and Mr. Palmer hums softly.

“Well spaceships are _really_ complicated. There’s a lot that could go wrong, even with all the tests in the world. That’s so the people can escape the ship if things go wrong, so they don’t die.”

“Oh.” Estelle murmurs.

“Most things have an escape route of some sort. Just in case, you know.” Mr. Palmer murmurs thoughtfully. He explains more to her - too much, in the end, she can’t remember it all but she remembers most of it - but eventually one of her father’s ‘Turks’ comes and gets her to take her home.

A few months later, she walks into her father’s office one night to see him going over blueprints. He’s in a good mood, for once - enough so that he actually beckons her over. “Look at this, Estelle.” He instructs, going so far as to pull her up into his lap so she can look at  it closer. She doesn’t love her father, but it’s hard not to like him when he’s in a good mood, so she leans into him a little and looks at the blueprints.

“President’s Office?” She reads from the top of the prints and he nods.

“This’ll be my office in the new HQ in Midgar. The tower’s almost finished. What do you think?” He asks, and he must be in a _very_ good mood to ask her opinion.

“It’s very big. I like it.” Estelle says quietly, reaching out to point - but not touch, never touch - at a box labeled ‘stairs’ near the bottom right of the big room. “Is there another floor?” She asks curiously.

“Hm? Oh, yes, it’ll be two floors. The sixty-ninth and seventieth. The very top of the tower - only the best for the President.” He brags proudly and Estelle frowns a little, thoughtful.

“You should add more stairs, over here.” She suggests, pointing at the bottom left corner - directly across from the other. She almost immediately freezes, because she’s not supposed to make suggestions - it only opens her up to mocking - and worries even more when her father doesn’t immediately respond. She hesitates, chewing her lip, before daring to explain herself, just in case it’ll spare her from his annoyance. “It’ll look more important, Father. _Extravagant,_ like our stairs.” She explains, borrowing a word from her mother, and then darts a nervous glance at his expression.

He’s frowning, but his brows aren’t furrowed like they do when he’s angry, so she relaxes a tiny bit. “...That’s a good idea, Estelle. Perhaps we should find someone to instruct you in design.” He muses, and her heart gives a little flutter in her chest. She can’t help but smile at him, and to her joy, he smiles back - just a little.

He’s never told her she could do _anything_ before.

She clings to that, not the least because it could very easily never happen again - and even at only five years old, she knows that much - so when she realizes something else about the blueprint, she doesn’t mention it.

He’d probably only go back to mocking her if she suggested an escape route, after all.

 

* * *

 

Rufia’s six the first time she holds a gun.

“Both hands. Like this.” The Turk named Two Guns tells her, correcting her grip. “Pull with one hand and push with the other. It’ll help you control the recoil.”

“Can I shoot it?” Rufia asks curiously, eyeing the weapon with interest. It’s small compared to the Turk’s, but not compared to her hands.

“No.” The Turks lips thin slightly. Disapproval, she recognizes easily. She sees it on her father’s face constantly, though she’s learning not to care. “Your father doesn’t know we’re giving you this. He disapproves. But you need a layer of defense, in case anything happens.” The Turk says, then looks at her carefully. “I’m going to teach you the basics of aiming. Try to remember them. Veld might be able to talk your father around, but for now, you’ll have to go off example and not experience.”

She nods, then tries not to look too intrigued when he teaches her how to aim, and to always go for the chest. “More area to hit. More vitals. Even if you’re off, which you will be, chances are you’ll hit something.” The man explains and Rufia nods dutifully.

That night when she goes home, she holds the gun and wonders.

 

* * *

 

It’s when Rufia’s eight that she decides she loathes her father.

It’s not a hard decision to make.

It doesn’t matter how much she learns from her tutors. It doesn’t matter how many times they sing her praises, complimenting her cleverness and quick learning. The man never seems impressed - and usually doesn’t even seem to care. Only on the very best of days does he inquire about her life, and by the time she’s eight, she’s well on her way to not caring.

The man’s far too unpredictable. If she were to stupidly hold out hope for those goods days, she’d be thoroughly disappointed 99% of the time.

So she doesn’t. Rufia decides to instead continue her focus on her studies. If her father won’t willingly acknowledge her, then she’ll make him regret it later. One day, when she outsmarts him, he’ll regret it.

She keeps that thought in mind throughout her studies, empowering her focus and determination.

Her father may think she’s useless as a girl, but she’ll prove him wrong.

One way or another.

 

* * *

 

Except then she turns eleven, and her father moves them to Midgar. Rufia hates it immediately - unlike Junon, the air in Midgar is constantly hot and stifling, and the Mako fumes _smell_ . She hates it - she _hates_ it - but she gets no say in it, and neither does her mother.

She knows her mother hates it, too, because she suddenly starts taking vacations every weekend and at least one full week a month, either going to Costa Del Sol or returning to their Junon mansion.

Rufia’s unhappy enough at the change that she abandons caution. Usually she avoids her father on his bad days, knowing from even just the way he closes the front door what sort of mood he’s in. He isn’t physically abusive, not really, but he does have a tendency to slap her hands away from him and push her out of the way on the worse days. But even when he’s only in a slightly poor mood, he mocks her and her mother relentlessly.

But she _hates_ Midgar, and more importantly, she can’t see any possible reason for the move. So she goes into his office one night, two weeks after their arrival, when the man’s mood has gone from thunderous down to only very irritated.

“What are you doing up? I don’t need you getting in my way with your pestering, Rufia.” He grumbles the moment she opens the door, glaring down at the papers on his desk. “Damn Hojo, the hell is that man planning…?” He mutters with a half-sneer.

“Father.” Rufia calls his attention, stubbornly stepping into the room, and he looks up at her, brow furrowing slightly in annoyance.

“I told you to not bother me, Rufia.” He scolds sharply.

“Why am I here, father?” She asks instead of responding to that, and it surprises her father enough that he pauses, frowning at her.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Here in Midgar. Why did you bring us here? Was Junon no longer-”

“You ask too many damned questions, Rufia.” Her father barks sharply, cutting her off, and she can’t help the slight twitching of a frown, though she hastily forces it away. “I don’t know how you turned out like this, but I’m sick of it. You need the right kind of education, and you weren’t getting it in Junon.” He complains loudly, grabbing a paper off his desk and smacking it down on top of a small, growing pile in one corner. “At least if you were a son, your attitude would be appropriate. But you’re not the son I wanted, and you’re useless to me like you are.” He spits, turning his full attention on her with a narrow glare.

Rufia meets his gaze, anger and something else twisting at her stomach. She feels sick, and a strange, unnerving combination of hot and cold as she stares at her father’s eyes - the same shade of blue as her own.

“With the right education you’ll be of _some_ use, finally.” He growls, gesturing vaguely but forcefully at her. She has no idea what he’s trying to point out about her - everything, most likely, and that stings her in a way she hadn’t thought him still capable of. “I’ll find someone - a _man_ \- who I can actually trust to competently run my company, and you’ll wed him. You’ll make him a good wife, you’ll give me a grandson, and my company will manage to stay in the blood line in spite of… _you._ ” He concludes with a sneer. “Now _get out,_ Rufia.” Her father half-shouts, and Rufia whips around to do just that.

She doesn’t dare slam the door behind her, no matter how tempted she is, because then he really _would_ hit her. Instead she closes it gently and strides down the hall, her head spinning strangely. The angry heat from before has abandoned her, leaving her feeling chilled to the bone.

Yet somehow, she isn’t even slightly surprised.

Rufia returns to her room, quietly closes the door behind her, and stares at her bed for a long moment, her head _spinning_ . He was going to force her to marry someone. She’s only _eleven_ , and he’s planning to force her to marry someone? (Albeit in the distant future, which is little comfort.) After all the _effort_ she’s put into her studies, after the incredible progress she’s made? Her tutors tell her she’s already at ‘late high school’ standards, and he still, _still_ won’t even acknowledge her _potential?_

The heat’s returning now, bubbling at her stomach and making her clench her fists at her sides.

“No.” Rufia murmurs firmly. She turns her gaze from the bed to her desk instead, striding over and settling down in front of her computer. It’s eleven at night, but that doesn’t matter to her. She’s going to work anyways, and she’s going to _learn_ , and if her father won’t let her have the rewards she deserves…

 

She’ll just learn how to take them for herself.

 

* * *

 

Rufia is thirteen, and she’s learned how to cook from expert chefs, how to _sew,_ and most annoyingly, she’s learned _interior design._

It’s the most insulting of all her new schooling, because not only is it something she actually enjoys, but it’s something her father had once suggested she learn - and he’d _meant it._ He’d been _impressed_ by her when he said it. It had been a compliment.

It is now, blatantly, a mockery.

She knows her father well enough by now to know he’s only letting her learn it to _mock her,_ and that makes her furious in a way she’s never felt before.

She doesn’t show it. She’s already learned far too well how to hide her thoughts and feelings on things, never again allowing herself to give her father ammunition against her. So she quietly takes the lessons, she learns, and she pretends to be content.

She is not.

Rufia is the farthest from content as someone can be, and even at the young, young age of thirteen, she is _furious._

She doesn’t want to be reduced to someone’s wife. She doesn’t want to be like her mother, who she loves but who is undeniably used and abused by her ‘loving husband’. She’s weak willed and complacent, too gentle and insecure to stand up for herself. Her mother is the perfect wife in her father’s eyes, and the idea of him trying to make Rufia the same way is…

Well.

_Infuriating._

She won’t do it. Rufia _refuses,_ so she plans around the situation instead. She learns as much as she can about everything she can, and Rufia _plots._

She knows it’s _wrong_ , but she’s incredibly good at manipulating people. It’s wrong, but she doesn’t _care._ If it’ll get her what she wants, then she’ll manipulate whoever she needs to. Her father, her ‘husband’, anyone who gets in her way. She’ll _prove_ her father wrong in his dismissal of her. She’ll prove him wrong, even if she has to _take_ the company for herself to do so.

 

No matter what she has to do to get there.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s two months after her fourteenth birthday that she gets the first opportunity to test her resolve. She goes down to the kitchen for a midnight snack, grabbing a small tin of ice cream and a spoon. It’s when she’s turning to leave that she spots  _ something _ out of the corner of her, just outside the kitchen sink window. Rufia pauses for only a split second, just long enough to figure out that it wasn’t so much a something as as some _ one _ , and then continues on her way even as her heart starts to pound in her chest. 

She doesn’t stop in her slow, deliberate steps until she’s reached her bedroom, where she mentally thanks the fact that her curtains were already drawn. Rufia hastily drops her things onto her desk and sinks to the floor, reaching underneath her desk. She slides out the lid of the small, hidden compartment within, her other hand waiting under to catch the gun as it falls out.

It was the only weapon she’s ever been entrusted with, and even then, it wasn’t her father who gave it to her - of course not.

Instead, it was one of the Turks she’d frequently been escorted by in Shinra Tower - a man who went by ‘Two Guns’ - and he’d only had the time to give her a basic idea of how to use it. And an instruction to always, always call the Turks if she were in danger, to only use the weapon if they couldn’t get to her in time. She’d nodded and agreed as earnestly as she had been able, but she makes no move to call for them yet.

She’s way too curious for that.

Instead Rufia stands up and examines the gun, carefully cocking it before flicking the safety on. Then she tucks it under her pillow and fetches her ice cream.

She turns on the TV, leans back against her spare pillow, and settles in for the night.

If anyone’s coming into the house, they’ll be coming for her. Only an absolute idiot would try to use her mother against her father - it’s obvious to the entire world that he has no care for the woman, after all - which leaves Rufia. So they’d come for her, and her bed’s as far from the door as it can get, so she’ll have plenty of time to draw the gun if it comes down to it. Enough time for her to press the panic button behind her headboard to call for the Turks.

In the meantime, though, she has every intention of enjoying the rest of her night.

She spends the next two days slightly on edge. Mostly, though, she’s too curious to worry much. Rufia’s certain that no matter what, she’ll be able to press the panic button before anyone can grab her - and while that wouldn’t stop them from hurting or kidnapping her, the Turks would be fast enough that she most likely wouldn’t get hurt too bad, and if they  _ did _ take her, she had a tracker in her bracelet.

Really, worse came to worse, they could be looking to kill her, but that seems very unlikely. The risk is small enough for her to take it.

So she waits, and three days later, she wakes to the sound of someone undoing the lock on her door.

Rufia’s sitting up with her gun at the ready before they can get the door fully open, and she closes one eye, holds the gun and aims it like Two Guns had told her, and fires the moment the man steps inside.

She hadn’t aimed for the head, so it definitely doesn’t kill him - of course not, it’s the first time she’s ever fired a gun, and it almost hits her in the face from the recoil - but she’d aimed for the chest, a much bigger target. And she’d aimed well  _ enough _ that the man tumbles backwards with a scream, and Rufia reaches back to press her elbow to the panic button. It wasn’t really all that hard to hit him, honestly. Even with her bed as far from the door as it can get, she’s still not  _ that _ far away.

Though the gun was a lot louder than she’d expected, which is pretty annoying.

She lifts the gun again - and finally finds it in herself to feel a little worried when the man catches himself on the hallway wall and lifts a gun of his own.

She throws herself off the bed and rolls to the ground just as the first bullet slices into the edge of her mattress.  _ Alright, _ Rufia thinks as she lowers herself to the floor and stretches her arm out, aiming at his feet from under the bed.  _ Perhaps I ought to have tried to avoid this situation, _ she realizes very belatedly. 

A foot is a much smaller target, and her first shot goes wide, and the damned recoil makes it hard to correct her aim - but she does her best and fires again.

Slightly less wide. Still completely misses.

The man stumbles with alarming speed into her room and around her bed, so Rufia rolls onto her back and aims upwards instead, anxiety really sinking in. It hits her in one blow, making it hard for her breathe - she’s pinned right where she is, and the second the man rounds the bed, he’s going to have his gun pointed right down at her, and she won’t be able to  _ move. _ Not in any which direction.

The man does just that.

He rounds the edge of her bed, one arm limp at his side and the other holding his gun  _ right at her, _ and the breath catches in her throat.

She shoots him first.

She  _ still  _ doesn’t kill him. Her shot goes wide again, but she’d aimed for the chest again, and instead of hitting his heart it somehow manages to bury into the flesh of his neck, just above the inner end of his right collarbone. 

_ Recoil,  _ Rufia determines to be the cause. Probably.

The man jerks back with a cry, his own shot going wide, and she doesn’t even feel it brush past her arm - not  _ really _ , anyways. There’s an odd sensation of tearing, the blood rushing from her face, but there’s no pain, and all she can do is watch as he staggers one step back, then falls.

He crashes into her desk, her lamp shattering across the ground, and then slumps sideways the rest of the way to the ground. He leaves red streaks on everything he touches, his hand abandoning his gun and reaching desperately for his neck instead. Rufia stares at him for a moment, blinking thickly and trying to slow her frantic heart, and watches as the blood wells up between his fingers.

Slowly, she lowers the gun to the ground, frowning at the way her hand shakes as she does. She pushes herself up, then stands the rest of the way and reaches for the drawer of her nightstand. Rufia isn’t stupid enough to take her eyes off the man, even as he bleeds a growing pool on her pretty blue rug, so she keeps her hand behind her as she opens the drawer and reaches in. It takes a bit of feeling around her her to find what she’s looking for, and the moment her fingers are wrapped around it, she steps over to the man. Rufia kicks his gun away - though he’d dropped it just out of his reach anyways, she thinks - and crouches down next to him, on the left side, where she’d apparently shot him in the shoulder.

Sort of. More the bicep than the shoulder, actually…

“Help me.” The man whispers, but his voice is just weak and not… bubbly. She’s pretty sure if he was bleeding into his throat, he’d sound bubbly.

Rufia arches an eyebrow at him, unimpressed, and rests her elbows on her knees as she crouches over him. “You tried to kill me.” She reminds him flatly, uncurling her fingers enough for him to see the green materia held within.

She’s utterly terrible at using materia. It’s barely even a Cure, and her ‘women’s tutor’ had given it to her so she could learn to heal her ‘children’s injuries’ one day, so Rufia had put absolutely no effort into learning to use it better. The only thing more annoying than the idea of having to marry someone is having  _ children, _ so she still has pretty much has only the barest idea of how to even use the thing.

But he doesn’t need to know that.

“I’ll help you if you tell me why you’re here.” Rufia lies, rolling the materia tantalizingly between her fingertips. “Did you want to kidnap me, or did you really want to kill me?” She asks and the man’s eyes widen for a moment. Then they tighten around the corners and his jaw sets a little.   
  
“Kidnap.” He whispers, strained, and she frowns softly.

She’s tempted to claim her father wouldn’t pay ransom for her, given her not being a  _ son, _ but he probably would - just so she could carry on the legitimate bloodline.

“Is there anyone else here?” She asks, eyes narrowing a little.

She might think her mother to be weak and, at times, pathetic - but she loves her, and if she’s in danger…

“No. No, just… just me.” 

Bullshit. She arches an eyebrow at him, pulling the materia back a bit, and his breath hitches a little. The pool of blood is big enough now that it’s starting to tickle at the tips of her toes.

“Two others. We were hired - I don’t know who, but they paid us good money.” He chokes out weakly.

‘Good money’? Hah. She doubts the sorry idiot knows what good money even is. 

She’s tempted to ask more questions, except that’s the moment her mother bursts into the room with three Turks right behind her. 

“Rufia!” Her mother cries, seizing her and yanking her to her feet, and Rufia stumbles a little as she’s promptly dragged away from the man. The Turks have him surrounded in seconds, silent but nonetheless terrifyingly effective as they start to do… whatever they do with would-be-kidnapper. “Are you hurt?” Her mother demands, looking her over frantically. “Your arm!” She cries a moment later, horrified, and her usually pale face gets even paler.

Rufia glances down to see a slightly thick, bloody line over her bicep, and winces a little at the sight. It hurts now that she thinks about it - it hurts kind of a  _ lot _ , but not terribly, so she reaches out with both arms to hug her mother. “I’m alright, mother. He barely hurt me.” She swears and her mother hugs her back, so tightly she almost can’t breathe.

“Oh, Rufia, I was so afraid. I was  _ so afraid _ for you! I wanted to help, but Veld told me not to, that I’d only get in the way! I would have anyways, but he was only three minutes away, and I know you, Rufia - I knew you’d fight.” Her mother babbles shakily, tears dripping down onto the top of her head, and Rufia sighs softly into the woman’s shoulder. 

She’s  _ fine _ , and this all seems a little dramatic, really.

“Mother-”

“Oh, shush, Rufia, comfort  _ me  _ if you won’t let me comfort you!” Her mother protests, squeezing her tighter. “I was  _ terrified _ when I heard the shots, but Veld promised me you had a gun of your own. When did you get a gun, Rufia? Where did you  _ hide _ it, and why did you never  _ tell _ me? Gaia, darling, I didn’t know what to do! A good mother would have rushed in, and I hesitated, I didn’t-”

“Evelyn.” The oldest of the Turks sighs, and her mother pulls back enough that Rufia can finally look around the room again. The other two Turks have the man strung up and unconscious, one of them throwing him up onto his shoulder, but the man seems to still be alive. He’s still  _ bleeding _ , at least.

“I liked that rug.” Rufia murmurs, frowning disapprovingly at her once powder blue mat. It had been a very gentle color, softer than her blue eyes but not by much. 

The Turk’s gaze darts to her for a second, narrowing in a way that makes Rufia hesitate, and then returns his attention to her mother. “Evelyn, you did the right thing. You would have only gotten in the way-”

“In the way of a murderer after my daughter, Veld!” Evelyn cries out shrilly, her tears coming faster now, and Rufia winces at the sound  _ right in her ear. _

Honestly, how excessive.

“Mother, calm down. I’m fine.” She huffs softly and her mother whips around towards her again, fingertips digging into her shoulders.

“But what if you weren’t? What if you weren’t and all I had done was stood there uncertainly while you suffered? I’d never forgive myself! You’re my precious daughter and I  _ love _ you, Rufia!” She cries out, horrified, and the fourteen year old can only grimace as she’s seized yet again by her mother.

In the end, the only thing that gets her free is the older Turk - Veld - reminding her mother of her small injury needing treatment.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m bigger than my body.  
> I’m colder than this home.  
> I’m meaner than my demons.  
> I’m bigger than these bones.”  
> \- Control, Halsey

“You’re rather calm.” Veld notes in a quiet, somewhat disinterested tone - deceptively so, considering he’s a Turk - as he carefully places butterfly stitches over the injury. Rufia hadn’t thought it necessary, but the man apparently did, and her mother had been left crying in the kitchen with another Turk.

“It’s over and done with. Why wouldn’t I be calm?” She points out, resisting the urge to shrug.

He glances up at her, eyebrow arching. “That isn’t the way most children would feel. Teenager or otherwise. The feelings of a crisis don’t typically vanish the moment a crisis is over.”

Rufia's lips twitch a tiny bit before she can help herself. Having a _Turk_ lecture her over how to feel emotions… “Are you telling me I should continue to feel scared even after the crisis is over?” She questions, tilting her head a bit to look at him better. His gaze darts up to meets hers for a moment, lips pressed into a harsh line - though that seems to just be his face, honestly - before he refocuses on the injury.

“Are you telling me that you _were_ scared during the crisis, then?” He counters mildly.

“I was.” She admits freely. “But only at the end. I was between my bed and my night table. I couldn’t go anywhere to escape him.” Rufia frowns a little at the memory of the fear that had touched her then. It’s true, there is still a lingering amount of shakiness to her - she feels it inside, even if her hands don’t shake outwardly. But that’s all.

Though she has heard that shock can take days to come out of, so perhaps she’s just doing well because of that?

“And that was when you shot him?” Veld questions as he carefully presses down the last butterfly stitch and reached back for a bandage.

“Yes. And when he first opened my door.” Rufia confirms, pausing when Veld looks up sharply at that. “What?”

“What alerted you to his presence?” He asks, and when she just frowns a little, he elaborates. “How were you able to notice him in time to draw your gun, ready it, and have it aimed before the door was opened?”

“What makes you think I did?” She wonders, frowning a bit harder.

“You’re slow.” Veld informs her curtly, his eyebrow rising again. “Inexperienced. It was your first time firing a gun, no? Then you must have already had it aimed for you to be able to fire it when he first opened your door as you claim.”

‘As you claim’. Well that was just unnecessarily rude. “I keep my bedroom door locked in case of unwelcome intruders.” She explains mildly.

Though ‘intruders’ meant more her father on his very rare, but very memorable nights when he’s returned home drunk and felt the need to berate her existence _immediately._ At least when the door was locked she’d just have to deal with him being furious the next morning, _after_ she’s had a nice night of rest.

“I heard him picking the lock and had enough time to get the gun out. Then I climbed back onto my bed.”

“Why?” Veld asks immediately, his eyes narrowed in a calculating way, and she’s a little bit amused to see him finally abandoning the pretense of curiosity. It was obviously an interrogation from the start, really.

“I have a habit of keeping my bed as far from the door as I can.”

“And why is that?”

“Advantage.” She folds her arms across her chest, reaching up to tug lightly at the knot on the bandage. “Anyone stupid enough to break into my room can only realistically want one thing: to kidnap me. If they wanted me dead, they’d attack when I go out with my mother. If they’re trying to kidnap me, they wouldn’t typically use a gun for anything but intimidation. So the distance gives me time to react as they approach me to try and use physical force.” Rufia concludes, frowning down at the slight ache in her bicep. He’d done something to make the pain disappear earlier, but it’s already creeping back in...

Veld’s utterly silent, and finally she looks up at him to see why - and finds him staring at her intently with narrowed eyes.

“...What?”

“Fourteen year old girls don’t usually consider those kinds of things, Rufia. In fact, they’re more concerned about the way their bed looks in the room than the strategy of it’s location.”

Rufia frowns at him for a moment, trying to figure out what the man is thinking. His voice is mostly flat, but his stare is intense, and clearly he’s weighing her in some manner. She tries to figure out how to respond to that, but she can’t really hope to manipulate the man - he’s completely unreadable, so she really can’t tell what kind of response he’s _looking_ for.

So she just arches an eyebrow at him. “So?”

Veld leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and frowning a bit at her. “I’m concerned about your mental health.” He says, so unexpectedly that it surprises a snort out of her.

“Really?” Rufia asks, smiling a little in amusement. “That’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

“If any other girl had a man break into her room, shoot her, and then watched him bleed half to death on her bedroom floor, she would be more of a mess than your mother is right now.” Veld informs her, his frown only deepening.

“You want me to feel insecure. To feel less safe in my own home after that kind of invasion.” She realizes, her smile fading a bit, but it still lingers at the corners of her lips. “Well, I don’t. I knew all it would take was the press of a button and you would be here to help me within minutes. I knew how to hold a gun, how to aim it, even if I had no practice. If the man had been more competent, I still wouldn’t have gotten far before your men would have retrieved me.” Rufia shrugs lightly. “But he wasn’t, and I shot him in the throat and watched him bleed out on my rug. I _liked_ that rug.”

“So I’ve heard.” Veld murmurs dryly, his frown even more intense now, but Rufia's already growing bored of this conversation.

“I’d like to go back to bed now. I’m getting tired.” She tells the man.

“Too bad. We’re still speaking. Why were you holding a Materia when we came in? What type was it?” He asks and Rufia blinks, a little startled.

“A Cure. I told the man I’d heal him if he answered some questions.”

Veld stares at her for a very long moment. “...Did you have any intention of actually doing so?” He asks slowly and Rufia rolls her eyes, shooting him an exasperated look.

“Of _course_ not. I just wanted to know if anyone else was in the house, and if my mother was in danger.”

Honestly, did she think she was stupid?

...Actually, she still can’t tell _what_ he thinks, his expression still unreadable as he stares her down. She has to admit she’s starting to feel a little uneasy now, but it’s more with the fact that she can’t read the situation than the fact that she’s victim to Veld’s intense _stare._

Rufia frowns softly and holds his gaze, curious now. Does the man _ever_ blink…?

“Rufia.” Veld finally says, and he pushes his elbows off his knees, leaning back in his chair instead. He folds his arms across his chest, all the better to stare her down, and she tilts her head questioningly at him. “Are you perchance a psychopath?”

Her frown deepens with disapproval.

“...That’s a very rude question, don’t you think?”  
  


Had anyone ever known her male counterpart, had met the ruthless man fate might have allowed her to be, they might have hoped that her being born a girl would make her nicer. Kinder. Women were supposed to be more naturally empathetic, after all.

But her father had told her that women were too soft to get anywhere in the world, and her mother had proved to her that softness only left them to get trampled on by their ‘betters’. She had learned far too quickly that being empathetic and _kind_ would only get her cast aside by society. If anyone had hoped Rufia Shinra would be a kinder soul than Rufus Shinra had been, they would have been sorely disappointed.

 

* * *

 

Rufia doesn’t expect anything to come of it. The Turks weren’t exactly known for their overabundance of morals, so she hardly thinks that they’d care much about her lacking some of her own. The worst they could do, she figures, is talk to her father about it and get laughed out of his office.

Women are _soft_ , after all, and that thought draws a small smile to Rufia's face.

One day…

One day, she’d teach her father just how very wrong he is.

Regardless, the Turks suddenly have much more of a presence in her life. It’s annoying, because Rufia had liked her vast amounts of privacy before - but she still has most of that, and it has it’s benefits. For one, her mother has stopped checking on her twice every single night since the Turks started having at least one of them in the mansion at all times.

At first, it doesn’t seem like anything else is going to happen in response the incident - but then Two Guns is assigned to watch the house for the weekend, and he draws her out into the yard after lunch. “I heard your first shot got him in the shoulder. Was that intentional?” He asks her as they walk out and Rufia frowns a bit.

“No. I was aiming for his chest both times like you told me.” She admits and he nods thoughtfully.

“Well you are damn lucky then. Did you use the first shot to correct the others?”

“Somewhat. There wasn’t much time, though, he was holding a gun at my face so I shot as fast as I could.” Rufia explains and he hums lightly.

“Alright. We’re going to practice a bit. You’re older now, too. A bit stronger than you were when you were a girl, yeah?” Two Guns offers her a small grin, reaching into his suit jacket to extract a gun.

It’s bigger than the one he’d given her before. Bulkier, and a bit longer in the barrel. She takes it carefully, using the trigger discipline he’d lectured into her head the first time she’d ever handled a gun, and he nods approvingly at that. “Now, I’ve set up a couple of targets for you.” Two Guns explains, gesturing outwards. There is an assortment of items lined up on the far side of the yard, though not too far away, and about four feet from the wall around the yard. They vary widely in size, starting large at one end and getting smaller and smaller along the way - until it goes from a large computer monitor to a small soda can.

“I expect you to hit all of them.” Two Guns informs her. “Now remember what I told you about sighting. This gun will be a bit more accurate - you were right with what you told Veld. When I gave you the first gun, your biggest danger was someone trying to kidnap you, at which point they’d be up close and personal. You didn’t need too accurate a gun for that, so I picked one with lower recoil and decent aim so you could fire as many times as you needed.” He explains, stepping behind her. She slides into the stance he’d showed her, but it had been years ago, so she isn’t surprised when he starts to carefully correct her with a series of pokes and prods.

“But this one’s different. That man had accomplices, and while we’ve dealt with them, they were alive long enough to most likely get the word out. Now if anyone else manages to get through your guards, they’ll be expecting you to fight back, unlike before. So you need better training - and we _finally_ got your father to agree.” Two Guns adds with a huff. It’s been months, after all, and the man hadn’t been very impressed to hear she’d dealt with the intruder herself.

He’d called her an atrociously mannered brute, actually, once again showcasing his admirable priorities.

“So. Training. The longer barrel will give you a good bit more accuracy, so with a little practice you’ll be a lot better than with the last gun. Do you remember what I told you about how to minimize recoil?” He asks and she nods, pointedly wiggling her fingers.

Though she doesn’t doubt she’ll still have a hard time with it, recalling how hard it was with the last gun.

“This one’s lighter, too, so the recoil will be worse. You don’t have much muscle so I won’t judge you, just try not to hit yourself in the face, alright?” Two Guns adds a little lightly and she rolls her eyes good naturedly before nodding.

“Alright, I’m ready.”

“Good. Go ahead.” He adds, then reaches up to slide heavy earmuffs onto her head. She fires a moment later, wincing when her gun jerks up almost a foot. The shot goes wide, but it hits the monitor on the first try - it just hits in the upper right corner instead of dead center.

She readjusts, head tilted a bit and her one open eye squinted, and takes another shot. This time it only hits about an inch from the center, and the next shot is in the middle.

“Almost a bullseye.” Two Guns announces proudly at her side.

The accuracy really _is_ better on this one, even if the recoil’s worse. The next target takes two shots, and the one after that takes two as well - but from there, she’s able to steadily hit each target in one shot. Not all of them are dead center, of course - especially not the can at the end - but when they walk over to look at the objects, they all have a hole at least vaguely in the middle area.

“You’re a quick study.” Two Guns notes with a hint of surprise, making him approximately the fifteenth person to tell her so.

 _I know,_ Rufia thinks boredly, but she speaks with a much more polite tone. “Thank you.” She says magnanimously. Two Guns looks sideways at her for some reason, thoughtful. She ignores him, eyeing the can with a considering gaze. The hole was closer to the edge than the center, and she feels oddly betrayed by that. “Can we practice more?” She asks, looking up at Two Guns, who immediately goes from thoughtful to slightly amused.

“Of course. We have all day, with your mother out and about. Just don’t tell your father we spent so much time on it, yeah?” He asks lightly and she can’t help but smile at that, though she keeps her glee firmly off her expression.

The Turks were loyal to her father first and foremost. His daughter or not, she couldn’t let them know exactly how much she loathed the man.

“Deal.” She agrees instead and he smiles back down at her.

It’s people like Two Guns that make her glad she didn’t decide to judge all men off the behavior of her father.

 

* * *

 

She’s fifteen when things take a change for the worse. Specifically, her mother, who has grown more protective and caring ever since The Incident - sometimes to an annoying degree - takes a turn for the worse.

It starts when her father’s secretary becomes pregnant.

Yet _another_ secretary.

The last one was when she was eight, so he’s actually had quite a good streak, but apparently he’s finally once more forgotten what condoms were. Or maybe the women have poked holes in them so they could get their fifteen minutes of fame. Who knows, really.

All that Rufia cares about is the fact that her mother, who had finally started to really smile, who had finally gotten some color in her face, abruptly loses any progress she’s made. She returns from Costa Del Sol in shame and misery, the news once more demanding to know what she’s doing so wrong that her husband feels the need to find comfort in other women. She’s pale faced and grim, and Rufia  _hates_ it.

Her mother might annoy her at times, but she does love the woman - in her own way.

She does what she can. She puts her ‘women’s training’, as her father had called it, to use for once and bakes comfort food for her mother, who eats it with at least a small amount of happiness. Rufia tries to spend more time around her, offering the woman hugs every once in awhile - even though she hates touching people like that - and that also seems to briefly brighten her up. But it’s always only temporary, and in the end, she mostly stands around feeling awkward and useless.

And then her father makes it worse.

“Another male, Evelyn. _Another._ ” Her father says in a twisted mixture of pride and disgust. “Why is it every other woman can give me what _you_ failed to? One legitimate heir, that’s all I asked from you, and you couldn’t even give me that.” He sneers at her, and the Turk of the day stands in the corner behind him with a small, disapproving frown. Rufia glances at him for a moment - it’s Rod today - before turning her attention to her mother. She’s pale, staring down at her plate with her lips pressed hard together. She’s upset - and worse, she looks _ashamed_ . Like _she_ has something to be ashamed about.

“You know, father,” Rufia says mildly, looking at the man. “They say that it’s the male who determines the gender. Perhaps you just failed miserably for a few years.”

The entire table freezes. Even the Turk freezes.

There’s a long moment where her father just _stares_ at her, his face steadily getting more and more red.

She’s completely unsurprised when he jerks to his feet and slaps her. The blow is hard enough that almost knocks her over and she has to hastily catch herself on the edge of the table, but she turns her head back around to stare flatly at the man, expressing just how _unimpressed_ she is.

Just like he likes to stare at her so very frequently.

“How _dare_ you.” He says very, very quietly. She sees the Turk twitch a bit from the corner of her eye, but her mother sits utterly frozen, eyes wide and expression horrified but unmoving. “How _dare_ you speak me to in such a way. After everything I’ve done for you. I never wanted a Gaia damned useless brat of a daughter, Rufia, and if it weren’t for the fact that I can _marry you off,_ I would have disinherited you _years_ ago.”

“Such a loving and caring father you make. I’m almost afraid to imagine how you’d treat me if I were the son you always wanted.” Rufia says with quiet ferocity, and gets another slap for that - this time backhanded, and she can’t help but wince a little as the skin on her cheekbone splits open.

His hand really is fat, she can’t help but think as she feels exactly how much surface it covers. “You really ought to diet.” She murmurs aloud, this time without even thinking, but she doesn’t take it back.

“Get out.” Her father hisses out between his teeth.

“Alexander!” Her mother finally speaks up in protest, sharp and shaky, and the man’s head jerks around to glare at her.

 _"S _h_ ut up, _ Evelyn.” He barks loudly before looking back at Rufia, jabbing a fat finger out at the door. “Get. _Out._ Before I _throw you out,_ Rufia.” He snarls.

She’s stubborn and furious, but even she doesn’t want to push him too far. That’d really impair her goals. She’s gotten what she wanted and the attention is off her mother, so she stands up and throws her napkin onto her plate - resisting the urge to throw it at the target of her irritation. She goes past him and towards the doorway, ignoring the way he shoves at her back and nearly sends her stumbling. She doesn’t stop walking until she’s up the staircase, and even then she only pauses because she hears footsteps.

It’s her mother, rushing after her with a white face and trembling hands. “I’m alright, mother.” Rufia tells her gently before she can say anything - or, god forbid, start outright babbling like she tends to.

“You aren’t. None of this is alright.” Her mother croaks, eyes too damp, but she’s usually far too composed to ever cry in front of someone. Such a thing would be unforgivable in her father’s eyes. “Why did you do that?” She asks weakly, grabbing Rufia's shoulders, and the younger girl sighs softly before looking up at her mother.

“Because father is a cruel and hateful man and you don’t deserve to be treated that way.” _Because you’re too soft for it. You’re weak. But I love you anyways,_ Rufia thinks unhappily.

“Don’t talk like that.” Her mother whispers, but there’s no force at all behind it. Her shoulders slump a moment later, grip weak against Rufia's shoulder, and the shame in her expression is even worse than before. “I couldn’t even speak up in your defense. I always fail to defend you, Rufia.” She says mournfully, and Rufia frowns a little at that.

“You _did_ speak up, mother.” She argues, trying to flash her a proud smile at that, but her mother won’t look at her. She stares down at the floor instead, green eyes far too wet. “Mother, you defended me.” Rufia tries again.

“I’ve never defended you. I’m sorry, Rufia.” Her mother whispers. “I’m so sorry.” She says, and before Rufia can figure out how to respond to that, she pulls back and walks past her.

She can only watch as her mother walks into her room, hearing the door lock behind her. That’s something, at least, Rufia thinks uncomfortably. At least her father won’t turn on her mother once she’s out of the way.

She heads to her own room, then, and after a moment’s hesitation, she doesn’t lock her door. If it comes down to it, she’d rather her father come scream at her than have him yelling at her mother’s door. She heads over to her vanity, then, and leans in to examine her face.

Her entire cheek is a darkening shade of red, with a small streak of blood rolling from the cut in her cheekbone. It’s an ugly cut - her father’s ring is ridiculously flashy, like the rest of him, so the cut is fairly large. She takes one of her makeup pads and dabs at the blood, carefully soaking it up and grimacing at the fierce ache in her cheek.

Sometimes, she really wanted to kill the man.

Maybe one day she even will.

It’s the first time he’s ever actually struck her before, but it’s also the first time she’s ever openly insulted the man - and on such a _sensitive_ subject. Recalling it actually draws a small smile to her face. If nothing else, she’s smug to have so easily gotten under his skin. All it had taken was two little sentences.

Maybe next time she’ll imply the issues lies in the _size_ of what’s between his legs. If she did that, she could probably set him off with just one sentence, and the sight of that would be worth the hit, she imagines. Her smile’s starting to hurt her face, though, so she forces it away - just in time for there to be a polite knock at the door.

Rufia pauses for a short moment, immediately realizing it has to be Rod. Her father would just burst in, and her mother would knock and then immediately open the door. “Come in.” She calls lightly, and the door slides open a moment later.

It is, of course, Rod, and to her surprise, he’s holding an ice pack wrapped in a washcloth. Rufia blinks at it, surprised, and carefully steps forward to take it from his hand. “Thank you.” She says quietly, looking up to study his face.

It’s impressively blank - like all the Turks’ faces. “Your father’s leaving for the night. I’ve been tasked with escorting him, so you’ll be without a Turk for a couple of hours. I doubt anything will happen - the guards are still around the wall - but just be aware.”

“I will be.” She assures him, frowning a little.

...There really wasn’t any reason for him to be telling her this, unless…

“You should be more careful, Rod.” Rufia says mildly, lifting the ice pack to her face, and he looks at her questioningly. “There’s no place in father’s world for softness.” She warns him, pushing at the door without waiting for a response. “Thank you for the ice pack.” Rufia says sincerely before she closes it - and then locks it.

 

Just in case.


End file.
